‘Hmm, both equally likely options,’ Jacob mused with the utmost seriousness. ‘Let’s go with the former.’
I forced a smile, but my heart was still hammering in my chest. I wished Joe was here so that we could talk about it, but the truth was I’d stayed awake until 3 a.m. last night waiting for him and he’d never showed. I didn’t know what filled me with more fear, the fact it had been eight days since I’d last seen him, or that, if I was honest with myself, I already knew what he would say.
‘Hey,’ Jacob said softly, ‘it’s just dinner.’ Those three words somehow answering every question that he knew I needed an answer to, as only a best friend could.No, it doesn’t make you an awful person. No, it doesn’t mean you love Joe any less. Yes, I will 100% take one for the team and go in your place if required.I smiled, reaching out and squeezing his hand across the table.
‘It’s just dinner,’ I repeated to myself, typing out my reply and clicking send before I could change my mind.
I could see him.
He was stood on the corner of the intersection, dressed in black jeans and a crisp white shirt that looked fresh out the packet, the collar stiff and tall against his neck, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. I loitered just out of sight, watching Luca for a minute as he checked his watch, then his phone, then his watch again, running his fingers through his tousled hair. He pacedthree steps one way and then three steps back, turning sharply on his heel as he went. Wait, washenervous? I watched as he looked down at his shirt, chin on his chest as his fingers undid another button, teasing the neckline open a fraction before shaking his head and quickly doing it back up. I stifled a giggle, the bundle of nervous energy in the pit of my stomach calming a fraction with the realisation that perhaps he was just as anxious as me.
I took a deep breath, running my palms down the silk fabric of the dress Jacob had helped me pick out. I’d wanted something new. Something I’d not worn before and, specifically, not worn with Joe. Something that had no memories attached to it until the ones I chose to make tonight. A blank canvas. Luca’s head snapped up the second my heels click-clacked across the cobbles, the crisp seams along his shoulders lowering a fraction as he watched me approach. I stared fixedly at the floor, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other without falling over.
‘Jenny.’
I loved the sound of my name in his mouth. The way he caressed the J. Like he was tasting it. My cheeks flushed as Luca’s eyes travelled up my bare legs, over the curve of my waist, to the low V of my neckline.
‘You look beautiful,’ he breathed, his palm like fire against my waist as he drew me towards him, pressing his lips lightly against my cheek. Lingering. I could smell his aftershave, a smoky, earthy musk that made my insides twist with a mix of desire and anticipation. God, he smelt good.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’ I smiled shyly, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind one ear as it danced in the evening breeze. We stood in silence for a moment, the streetlight above us flickering on even though it was still light out.
Luca cleared his throat, one arm stretched out wide. ‘Shall we?’
I nodded, falling into step beside him. We passed a row of small independent shops, all shrouded in darkness bar the final building on the end, which bathed the last few squares of pavement in a warm, welcoming glow. The faint sound of music buzzed from behind net-curtain-covered windows, which were so fogged up with condensation that you could barely see in. Luca held the door open for me and I tried not to think too hard about how my bum brushed the front of his trousers when I squeezed past. The rich smell of ragu greeted me as soon as I stepped inside, wholesome and comforting in that way only proper home-cooked food can be.
‘Ah, Signore Luca!’ A greying man with bushy eyebrows that sprouted off in every direction other than the one they should hurried towards us. He was dressed in chef’s whites, with a black apron straining valiantly across his middle and a great beaming smile plastered across his face. Something about his smile seemed familiar, the way it pulled my own mouth up at the corners prompting an uncanny sense of déjà vu. He clasped Luca’s hand in both of his and pumped it fiercely up and down, a light dusting of flour floating in the air between them.
‘Matteo.’ Luca greeted him warmly, clapping him on the shoulder once he regained possession of his hand. ‘Thanks so much for squeezing us in.’
Matteo threw his hands in the air before resting them on his belly. ‘Ah, it is nothing. Anything for Signore Luca and his lady friend.’ He peered round Luca towards me, his eyebrows performing an excited dance across his brow.
‘Jenny, lovely to meet you.’ The air rushed out of me as Matteo ignored my outstretched hand, pulling me in for what I could only presume was a hug, his soft, rotund stomach stopping us from fully embracing. He smelt of red wine and freshly cracked black pepper.
‘Signorina, the pleasure is mine. Ah, Luca, you didn’t tell usshe was so beautiful, eh?’ Matteo scolded, gesticulating wildly with one hand and flipping Luca with a dishtowel with the other. I realised that Matteo was fluent in three languages – Italian, English, and the one he spoke with his hands. I felt my cheeks flush.
‘Luca!’
I watched over Matteo’s shoulder as a mop of sandy-brown hair sped through the restaurant, weaving in and out of the tables with ease before launching itself at Luca’s legs, tiny arms wrapping themselves around his knees.
‘Woah, slow down, mister.’ Luca smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately. I recognised Andrea immediately, with those too-big-for-his-face brown eyes and the distinctive red and black football jersey that he’d never not been wearing whenever I’d seen him at the community centre. So that’s where I recognised Matteo from.
‘Hello, Miss Jenny.’ Andrea smiled his big toothy grin up at me, his hand rubbing shyly at his face, not quite meeting my gaze. Matteo looked down at his grandson with nothing but love and adoration before turning back to us.
‘Come, I havespecialtableprepared, just like you asked,’ Matteo stage-whispered to Luca loudly enough that the whole restaurant probably heard, prompting two pink spots to bloom on Luca’s cheeks. Matteo gestured for us to follow him through the restaurant, Andrea placing his tiny hand in mine and leading me through a maze of red checked tablecloths and mismatched wooden chairs. We went through a swing door at the back of the restaurant that led to the kitchen, past a wood-fired oven and a rosy-cheeked, white-haired woman stirring a pot of delicious-smelling tomato sauce. Matteo introduced her as his wife, Magda, who planted a kiss on both my cheeks and then another on Luca’s, holding his face tenderly in both her hands and speaking very fast Italian. She beckoned for us to follow herto the back door.
‘Oh.’
I stopped dead, poor Andrea jolting backwards from the sudden change of pace. It was as if stepping through their creaky stable door had transported me all the way across Europe, to a little slice of Italy hidden away down the backstreets of Hove. The garden was wild, all cracked terracotta pots and mismatched paving slabs, with vines crawling up the brick walls that flanked it on all sides, but there was a beauty to the untamed landscape. The olive trees, uneven and natural, swayed in the warm breeze, which smelt of lemon balm and oregano, herbs spilling over the tops of their pots in carefree abundance. A small wrought-iron table and two matching chairs had been set up in the middle of the garden, the single red rose and about a hundred tealights flickering in old jam jars on the paving slabs speaking of a woman’s touch.
‘It is OK?’
I turned to see all four of them staring at me, their eyes wide and unblinking in anticipation. A warmth bloomed deep in my chest at the thought of Luca arranging all of this. Of Matteo and Andrea carefully selecting the perfect rose. Of Magda lighting each candle in turn, positioning them just so. The sentiment. The care. The thought.
‘It’s perfect.’ I smiled, weaving the silk tie of my dress back and forth through my fingers, until I realised that one wrong tug could result in my dress unravelling and quickly stopped. I pressed my lips tightly together, fighting back a giggle when Andrea grabbed onto the other side of the chair with Luca, the two of them pulling it out for me. Andrea snatched the menu from Magda’s hands and passed it to me with a shy smile before Matteo shooed him back up the flagstone path.
‘Think I’ve got some competition,’ Luca remarked with a raise of his eyebrow. I laughed, feeling my shoulders relax.
‘Pfft, we don’t need menu,’ Matteo announced dismissively, swiping the faux-leather folder out of my hands before I could even open it. ‘I can make anything you like, your wish is Matteo’s command.’
